


downward spiral

by ponyponynay



Series: Visions [3]
Category: Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 15:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponyponynay/pseuds/ponyponynay
Summary: Timmy can feel the boat he and Armie are on spiral out of control and sink beneath the earth. He doesn’t know when or where the point of no return is, but he thinks they must be close, because it really feels so fucking bad. And Timmy knows it’s he himself who’s had a change of heart that’s leading them down this downward spiral.He’s the one who wanted different. More.





	downward spiral

**Author's Note:**

> hello all. thanks for all the messages and stuff on previous parts. again, please take note of the time stamps!

 

 

 

**Thursday 9:52 p.m.**

 

Timmy briefly ponders chucking his phone out the window.

He lives on the seventh floor.

But then there are some really treasured photos on there, of friends and family in beautiful places. And then there are the selfies with his idols — Cudi, The Weeknd, Frank Ocean, etc. Timmy would hate to lose those.

Besides, his agent would strangle him. Last time Tim couldn’t be reached, Brian sent out an entire NYPD squad. It was excessive, to say the least. Timmy was busy getting fucking high and highly fucked was all, but being offline for three days had sounded Brian’s alarm rather dramatically. He and Armie both had a fairly serious talking to after that.

For now, Timmy’s deciding against the idea of chucking his phone out the window, but he swears, one more stupid text from Armie and the phone was taking a deep dive into the concrete outside.

But Armie really has great timing.

Just as Timmy makes a dumb vow he can’t keep, the phone goes off again. And of course, it’s Armie. Tim doesn’t even have to look this time to know that. Armie tends to rapid-fire when he’s got excuses to make. One ring quickly blossoms into a series of seven or eight, and counting.

Timmy’s read them all, but believes precisely none of them.

[ I’m not messing with u on this, T. It’s for real ]  
[ just, gimme some time. It’s easier said than done ]

Timmy frowns, contemplating whether he should keep that promise he made to himself.

[ for fucks sake, say something ]  
[ or don’t ]  
[ seriously?! ]  
[ come on, babe. ur killing me here ]  
[ please, Tim. I need you to say something ]  
[ what the fuck do I have to do to make you believe me? ]

A part of him feels an odd sense of pride at how much he’s gotten Armie riled up, practically begging for his reaction. Armie flexes his muscles quite a bit about being the grown up in the relationship, of being the person who says “no” and brings up things like responsibility and control. That always irritated Timmy, and it felt satisfying in a sick way to see him relinquish that control a bit.

_Look who’s begging now._

But none of that actually mattered, Timmy decides. It’s all a pointless exercise, a pissing contest at best.

What really mattered is that it’s come to a point where Timmy cannot believe anything that Armie says anymore.

 

 

 

**Wednesday before, 10:17 a.m.**

 

Timmy wakes with a piercing migraine. It’s so bad he can’t open his eyes. Perhaps it’s only the natural consequence to his cocktail of self-medication from the night before. Some were legal and some, definitely not. But he was in need, so he helped himself, as he often does nowadays.

It’s not healthy, he knows. But short terms remedies are exponentially more gratifying.

Last night had sucked his fucking soul out of him. Armie’s record-breaking six-hour trip here and the fight that ensued had Timmy flailing around in a shitstorm of emotions. And here he was now, dwelling in the sick glow of the morning after.

First thing’s first, though. He’s got to call Brian. Timmy may be a fucking mess right now, but he wasn’t stupid enough to let his career down the drain over some stupid fight. He was supposed to be at a rather important meeting with a film executive in less than two hours, and there was no way he was making it in this shit state, so it was probably best that he let Brian know sooner rather than later.

Shit, he probably wouldn’t get the part if he showed up looking like this anyway.

Timmy knows he has to make the call, but he’s terrified at the thought of having to turn his phone on. It’s remained off since Armie’s departure the night before, and frankly, it was probably better off staying that way. If he turned it on now, inevitably, he’d run into a thousand attempts at communication by Armie. Timmy wasn’t sure he could handle those right now. Just the thought of Armie choked him up already.

Moments later, Timmy finally sucks it up and turns on his phone. His worst fears come alive as his messenger app he uses exclusively with Armie flashes a double digit number.

He swipes his fingers at the speed of light, exiting out of the million notifications that pop up and heading straight to the call button. He is careful not to accidentally hit Armie’s name on the recent calls list, on which Armie occupies a large share. That’s a difficult task all on its own.

Timmy quickly scans through, finds Brian’s name on the list and taps it. Brian answers right away.

[ Hey Tim! Was just about to call you. How’re you feeling today? ]  
“Actually, not good. Bri, I’m sorry… I’m really not feeling well. Is there any way you could shift things around and move this meeting?”  
[ Oh lord, you ok? Yeah, yeah. Of course. Don’t worry about the meeting. I’ll take care of it. But what’s wrong? Are you coming down with the flu or something? ]  
“Maybe. Not sure yet.”

Timmy feels bad about lying. But he can’t tell the truth. Brian and Armie are pretty close, too. And it won’t go over well if Brian finds out about the explosive row he and Armie just had.

[ We should get you to the doctor’s. Can’t have you getting all sick when you’re supposed to start filming in two weeks. Let me send a ca—— ]  
“No, no. I’m gonna be fine. I probably just need to sleep it off.”

After hanging up, Timmy sinks back into his comforters and buries himself. He pokes his head up slightly moments later and holds his phone up.

He can’t help but look at those texts Armie has sent him. Fucking hell, he wishes he didn’t want to. But he really can’t help that he does.

It’s that fucking witchcraft at work again. He fucking loves Armie so much he can’t goddamn help but look at the words he sent him, because fuck, what if…

Timmy can’t finish his own thought on that. He doesn’t know anymore.

He scrolls all the way to the top of the unread messages.

[ babe I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare u. I’m really sorry. ]  
[ please just talk to me. ]  
[ i love you so much. I can’t handle it when i think u don’t love me back. ]  
[ I’m sorry ]  
[ please tim ]

There’s about a five-minute gap in the time stamps in between.

[ alright then. Ur just gonna keep ignoring me huh ]  
[ what the fuck timmy. What the fuck do u even want ]  
[ forget it, i know what u want ]

[ please tim let’s talk about it ]

Reading the series of texts from Armie is like observing a schizophrenic from inside clinic walls. He goes from loving to hating, begging to cursing.

About five schizophrenic episodes played out over a series of dozen messages later, Armie drops a bomb.

[ i’ll get a divorce ]  
[ does that make u happy ]  
[ i’ll leave her ]  
[ i’ll give her whatever she wants and end it quick ]  
[ then i can come out there. Or u can come out here ]  
[ look, i can’t figure any of this shit out if u won’t answer me ]  
[ Timmy please. I need u to talk to me. Isn’t this what you want? ]

Timmy can’t help but feel a little bitter about how that came across. So he’s doing this because he thinks that’s what Timmy wants. But what did he want?

[ I love you. ]  
[ do you love me? ]

Timmy wasn’t going to lie. He flinched a bit when he read the texts, wanting to hit the call button right away. But he held himself, because his head was a bit clearer now, at least more so than the night Armie was here, and that sane part of Timmy knew such a bombshell statement from Armie was probably a heated response to Timmy having ignored him for days.

He couldn’t possibly have meant it, because….

If Armie was actually going to do it, he’d have done it already.

 

 

 

**Thursday 9:54 p.m.**

 

Timmy can feel the boat he and Armie are on spiral out of control and sink beneath the earth. He doesn’t know when or where the point of no return is, but he thinks they must be close, because it really feels so fucking bad.

And Timmy knows it’s he himself who’s had a change of heart that’s leading them down this downward spiral. He’s the one who couldn’t deal with it anymore. He’s the one who wanted different. He wanted to monopolize when Armie didn’t seem to mind dividing himself up into pieces.

Armie had always been pretty consistent, and confident in at least a few facts about himself.

One, the children always come first.  
Two, the children never get hurt because of this.  
Three, the children, the children, the children.

Naturally, divorce meant not putting the children first. It also meant the children were going to get hurt. Hence, it was never going to happen. But apparently, now it was. Timmy felt strange about that.

Armie had sufficiently made Timmy feel like a fucking home wrecker for wanting such a thing.

Honestly, though, Timmy thinks all of that is bullshit, but he can’t help how Armie is. Armie is Armie, and he’s got his own idea of what a perfect fucking family should look like, fueled by the fucked up ideas genetically and circumstantially handed down to him. Plus, when Armie thinks he’s right about something, it’s basically impossible to convince him otherwise.

Marriage was sacred. Children need both parents. Happy family means endless levels of sacrifice. Divorce with kids is a crime punishable by death.

And here Armie was now, saying he’s getting one. For Tim.

Believing what he’s saying is another matter altogether, though. Timmy doesn’t actually think people can change their minds about what they believe so firmly in that quickly.

Two years and then some are not enough time for that to have happened, he thinks. Rather, he thinks _he_ 's not enough to have changed Armie's beliefs -- Armie’s had a lifetime to form them. He’s heard Armie talk about the idea of divorce rhetorically before and he’d honestly thought he was listening to Armie’s mother and not him.

Timmy takes a deep sigh. He thinks a lot, writes copious drafts of messages addressed to Armie, erases them all. Some show deep resentment, others tell Armie to fuck off in a million different ways. But what he ends up sending are neither of those.

[ show, don’t say ]

That’s what he ends up sending.

Timmy has no idea why he fucking did that.

 

 

 

**Thursday 11:27 p.m.**

 

Armie had been quiet for nearly two hours since Timmy’s reply. Timmy doesn’t know how to take that silence, so naturally, he thinks the worst.

Armie’s not going to “show” anything, he concludes, because he has nothing to show. It was all words and since Timmy had gone too far and exposed that, this was the inevitable end.

 _The End_. Cue the sad, ominous background music as the camera shifts its focus, up and away.

This film will end with Timmy left to die in the dirt, while white knight Armie rides off into the sunset on a chariot with his queen wife and golden children.

But Timmy’s thoughts betray him again as his phone bleeps, and it’s Armie.

This time, it’s a photo. Timmy immediately opens it up to full view, and it’s a pair of envelopes with Air France logos on them. Upon realizing what they are, the corners of his mouth twitch a little bit as if they were going to morph into the tiniest smile.

But before jumping into reaction, he calmly reads the caption.

[ you, me, paris, next week. clear ur schedule. ]

Then finally, the corners of his mouth allow themselves to shift upward into a faint smile.

Timmy could himself falling for it again.

 

 

 

**Following Monday 3:48 p.m.**

 

Two days before he’s supposed to fly out to France, Timmy’s already packing. He’s usually a last-minute packer, if he packs at all. These days, there’s someone else who does that for him.

But he’s excited, and he hasn’t felt excited about anything in a long time. So he allows himself this pleasure.

Timmy wants to look nice on this trip. Maybe they’ll even go on a fancy date or two, who knows. Or maybe Armie will spend the whole week in varying colors of his tracksuits. Timmy’s got his own tracksuits -- most of them gifted to him by Armie -- folded neatly in the trunk as well. He’s happy to follow along, if it comes down to that.

Obviously, the ideal scenario would be if they didn’t have to wear _any_ clothes at all, he thinks. Timmy giggles a bit at that thought.

As Timmy’s taking a long cigarette break while letting his imagination run free, Armie calls.

“Hi babe.”  
[ hey baby. ]

Armie’s tone is weird, sigh-ridden. Timmy had thought earlier about calling to banter about what to bring but hasn't managed yet, so he’s eager for a chit chat now that Armie's on the line. But sensing the weird hesitation in Armie’s voice, Timmy holds back.

Instead, he asks, “What’s up?” His own tone colored with suspicion.

[ I have bad news. ]  
“... what bad news?”  
[ Timmy, I… ]

Timmy doesn’t even need to hear anymore.

“Don’t even fucking say it.”  
[ I’m sorry. It’s… Liz just… she had me down for a trip to Texas that she just forgot to tell me about, and the kids think I’m going and… ]  
“Wow.” Timmy looks visibly offended.  
[ babe, please just listen to me… i wasn’t lying when i said-- ]  
“No, fuck you.”

Timmy just hangs up, not giving Armie a chance to finish his sentence. He doesn’t really need to hear anymore. It was probably going to be more of the same from Armie. Really, Timmy thinks he should have seen this coming from miles away.

How fucking stupid of him to have believed. Again.

By now, he must know it’s cyclical. He’s given a small piece of hope, which he latches onto for dear life. But then he’s sent flying along with that piece of hope, which turns out to be a rotten one that makes him incredibly sick. Rinse, repeat.

Timmy comes out of each one a little more scarred.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Timmy yells loudly as he kicks his suitcase and the wall in sequence. Two loud thuds echo in the room. As he’s soaking in that echo, Timmy looks down at the phone in his hand.

This time, there’s no pondering as he angrily steps towards his half-open window and chucks his phone out from his seventh-floor apartment.

He doesn’t hear the phone crash.

 

 

 

**Following Wednesday, 1:24 p.m.**

 

Timmy calls Brian from a pay phone at JFK.

He’s wearing a black cap with the brim pulled down so low it covers more than half his face. He keeps looking around suspiciously, as though someone might spot him at any moment.

Brian screams so loudly through the receiver that Timmy flinches hard. He did see it coming, knows he deserves it, too. Brian rarely loses his cool, but when Timmy goes rogue and off the grid, this is a pretty typical response from him.

[ What the fuck, Timmy? Why’s your phone off? What is this fucking number? Where are you? ]  
“I… It’s a pay phone,” Timmy replies hesitantly, as he leans into the phone box more. 

[ Why the fuck are you calling from a pay phone? What did you do with your phone? ]  
“It’s kind of a long story… Listen, I’m getting out of town for a bit. I just called so you wouldn’t call the fucking cops again.”

[ What? Did you just say you’re going out of town for a bit? Are you out of your goddamn mind? ]  
“I’m sorry. Just… I need a little time off. I’ll call you when I’m sorted.”  
[ When you’re sorted? When the fuck is that, Tim? ]  
“I don’t know… Just… I’ll let you know.”  
[ What the hell are you playing at, Timmy? Does Armie know about this? Is, is he with you?? ]

Timmy sort of freaks out at the mention of Armie’s name.

“No. No, Armie. Don’t say anything to him. Look, I gotta go,” he says in haste. Timmy senses that this conversation has to end now.

[ Tim… Tim! Timmy! Fuck — ]

So he puts down the receiver before Brian can talk him out of the bad decisions he's about to make.

 

 

 

**Paris, Following Saturday, 1:43 a.m.**

 

Timmy stumbles, giggling uncontrollably. When he flails, four people immediately rush up to help. He grabs one of their arms and clings on. The arm belongs to a man twice Timmy's size. Timmy doesn’t know him -- they’ve just met, but he thinks the guy’s nice to look at.

Tall, blonde, built. Very Scandinavian. Not from around here.

Just like Timmy’s not from around here. But he could be.

Timmy’s head spins. He prefers it that way. It’s exponentially more interesting when the world around him swirls. Still with the stranger’s arm cradling his back, Timmy clears another shot to wash away the bitter taste from a white pill he swallowed minutes ago. Another stranger gave it to him -- he has no idea what it is, but imagines it’s probably a derivative of E.

Paris is a fucking blast, Timmy thinks. Even though he can’t quite remember how he ended up here, at this time, on this day, on his own.

Then it dawns.

 _Oh_.

But Timmy would rather not.

“Wanna get out of here?” the tall stranger asks, leaning in more than necessary as he nearly shouts over the booming music.

With blurred vision, Timmy says nothing. But he nods.

_Fuck it._

 

 

 


End file.
